The Passion of Cassandra

Sal sits back in his chair and slowly wipes the blood from his fingers with a clean, white cloth. This past week has been a lot of fun, but like all good things, it’s about to come to an end. He kicks at the cringing, weeping brunette huddled at his feet and smiles.

“I figured you for a tougher nut to crack, honey.”

Cassandra whimpers, her voice rough from all the screaming. Oh, she’d gone into the game strong enough. A defiant tilt to her chin? He fixed that by breaking her jaw. An angry glint in her eyes? He fixed that by blackening them. She told him to go fuck himself. He fixed that by fucking her. Repeatedly. Violently. In every degrading way possible. The harder she screamed, the harder he came, which worked out just fine with him.

Venus wasn’t too pleased with that part, but he thinks he fixed that problem by letting his bot have the honors of preparing his messages to all of Cassandra’s under-bosses. Venus was quite clever with the packaging, too. Freshly severed toes tend to bleed far more than one would anticipate, and a leaking package would give away the surprise inside.

He grins at the memory of Venus cutting each toe from Cassandra’s elegant foot. His bot chose to use an old, rusty kitchen knife. Made for a messier cut, but from the look of satisfaction on her lovely face, Venus didn’t seem to mind. She enjoyed herself so much, that after he fucked her as a bleeding, sobbing Cassandra watched, he had Venus sever Cassandra’s thumbs – a special gift for dear old, drug king, daddy.

Two thumbs up did catch the attention of one Mr. Priam Nathans, and initial shots were fired. Pawns were taken down, otherwise useless junkies finally having purpose as cannon fodder. And maybe a few buildings, alright, blocks of buildings, were burned by both sides. Small prices to pay for keeping a hand in the London drug pot, and Sal wanted BOTH hands in.

Cassandra was right – he was living beneath his means, and he’s decided that he’s tired of it. He wants the castle on the hill, and he’ll be damned if he’s not gonna take it from Nathans. It was time for the guard to change. Le roi est mort; vive le roi, and all that shit.

He’s got hell of an ace up his sleeve, and it’s time to lay her on the table. Fuck, he’s already laid her on his own table…and sofa, and floor, and sink, and everywhere else except the bed. He kicks his pretty little ace in her bruised and broken ribs.

“It’s time to see your pops, honey. Let him take a good look at how well his little girl held onto his empire.”

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Time apart.

“Only a few days, he said. Not even a week, he said. You won’t even miss me, he said.
Harumph. For a Fae, he’s a big, fat liar!”

Buffy continues slogging through the eastern Californian desert. Vision quests just aren’t what they used to be. There was a time she’d just hike a few hours, make a fire, and the quest would come to her.

Now, she’s hiked for days, made a few fires, and a whole lotta nothing came to her. Nothing but sadness and longing and a seriously weird sensation of emptiness that had nothing to do with her dwindling supply of trail mix.

“It’s all Jareth’s fault. I can’t focus on questing when I miss him so much. Damn, when did I become /that/ girl? I’m a strong, independent woman! Hear me roar and kick demon ass!”

She stands to pace around her small fire.

“I’ve spent years on my own. Well, with my friends, but that’s different! I don’t need somebody else to make me whole. I am a complete, fully realized, self-fulfilling…”

Her words trail off as she sinks to the ground. She wraps her arms around her legs, rests her head on her knees, and for the umpteenth time begins to cry.

“I need you, Jareth. You’re, like, the other half of my soul, and I’m broken without you.”

She lifts her head, the tears on her face shining in the firelight.

“Is that what my quest has been trying to tell me? That I don’t have to fight alone, anymore? Maybe I’m stronger as part of a whole…like when gems fuse on that cartoon…”

The fire blazes higher, brighter than before, as if answering her questions. She nods in understanding before speaking the words she’s been refusing to say for days.

“I wish my Goblin King were here with me…right now!”

Dear Jareth 10-17

I need you and you’re not here. I’ve spent a lifetime being strong, and after a moment of weakness with you, I’m broken. There’s not enough of me left to put back together. Billions of infinitesimal shards ground to dust.
For what it’s worth, I truly loved you.
I still do. Only, there’s nothing left of me.

It’s not fair…but that’s the way it is.

I know it’s unfair to ask you to sacrifice something just because I have, so that’s why I didn’t ask.

But I was kinda hoping you’d stop too, just because you wouldn’t want to without me.

Instead, you’re still there. You say you miss me…but you’re still there.

If you left, I’d be done. There’d be no point without you. I couldn’t start up with someone else in the meantime, because there is no one else for me.

I guess it’s wrong to be upset that you evidently feel otherwise, since you do deserve to take care of yourself.

But it really, fucking hurts to be so quickly replaced.

Letter to Jareth 10/15

I woke up without you.
I got dressed, had breakfast, and went to work without you.
I came home, changed, and went on patrol without you.
I almost got my ass handed to me because I still couldn’t imagine my life without you.
I limped back home without you.
I showered and had a non-fat yogurt without you.
I crawled into bed, so big and cold without you.
And now, I’m going to cry myself to sleep, because in my dreams is the only time I don’t have to be without you.

I’m so empty without you.
I’m so numb without you.
I grieve without you.
I’m half the person I can be without you.
I don’t want to live without you.

I love you, Jareth.
Goodnight, Goblin King.